


Clear Blue Skies

by PersonyPepper



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Drunken Kissing, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Immortal Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mutual Pining, they're just a lil tipsy, too many damn metaphors lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:41:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29657016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PersonyPepper/pseuds/PersonyPepper
Summary: The weather is particularly uncooperative, forcing Geralt and Jaskier into a tavern. With rain beating at the windows, Geralt finds that his dam is cracking, well on its way to breaking. He shouldn’t love Jaskier, yet, he can’t keep the words from tumbling out of his mouth faster than he can catch them.Or, Geralt of Rivia, pining extraordinaire, finally realizes he's in love with one Jaskier the Bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Mentioned Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 191
Collections: GRB2020 Team Works





	Clear Blue Skies

**Author's Note:**

> For the Geraskier Reverse bang! I had the pleasure of working with @verobatto-angelxhunter and wrote this lil fic based on their art! You can find it [here](https://verobatto-jaskierxgeralt.tumblr.com/post/643927467838619648/my-third-artwork-for-geraskierreversebang-this).

Sour weather hurls towards furious storm as thunder crackles over the horizon. The bard complains, doublet tugged over his head as he plasters himself to Roach’s flank. His lute, at least, lays safe and dry in its case. Geralt pulls up the hood of his cloak, unwilling to admit to himself his envies of the wooden thing. “Oh, curse this damned day!” Blue eyes squint up at Geralt, skin flushed pink with the chill. “How much longer till the town, Geralt!” Less of a question, more of a command as if Geralt’s to bring the town to him. Damned spoiled bard. Geralt grunts in reply. Jaskier groans and cuddles his lute closer to his chest.

It’s not far, they’re near the border fence of the small establishment. Windows glow yellow with dull candlelight, bright against the dark of the clouds; it’s not the worst settlement he's seen. Amber eyes scout the little town with ease as Jaskier gasps in excitement and jogs through the mud towards the buildings. “Catch up soon, I’m going to get us a room,” he calls, ignorant of the mud that splashes onto the fine fabrics he wears. Geralt quirks his lips. The bard, as fancy, noble, and reputable as he is, is a child— overeager and curious to a fault with an air of idiocy to top it off. Geralt can hear his happy sigh as Jaskier ducks into the tavern, soaking wet and dripping water. The clouds feel oppressive as he stables Roach, bright lightning having faded into a dull grey. 

Jaskier’s already singing by the time Geralt walks in to order them two piss-poor ales; the candles flicker, lanterns swaying, sparkling with the thump of boots and the shout of song. Jaskier sways along with them, fresh golden doublet shining as he twirls. Geralt watches him leap across tables, into laps, and lean against shoulders as he sings and plays. 

Some things aren’t meant to be. Sometimes, Geralt wonders if one of those things is a witcher without a bard. He can’t imagine himself without Jaskier— without Jaskier’s bright eyes, without his bright voice that lingers and annoys and _irks_ . He hasn’t given the witcher a break in over twenty years, Melitele. Geralt still muses how grey the world feels when Jaskier isn’t by his side, whining and wild as he stalks through wildflowers without grace. He sighs; dammit, damn his speech. Jaskier’s turning him into a _poet_ , making him fall in love with the small things, fall in love with the _romantic_ things. Though, perhaps he shouldn’t be too surprised. Bards make people do stupid things all too often, witchers included. The bench creaks as he sits, back to the wall and facing the room, finally finding respite from his aching back and sore legs.

Thunder rumbles in time with Jaskier’s voice, ringing through the thin tavern walls. Geralt can feel it through the thumping of feet and fists against wood, through the chanting of song lyrics and calls for _again_ and _another one!_ He can feel it through his heart, in his soul, something that visits and stays for days, months... Geralt is yet to admit to himself that it never quite leaves. 

Love, Eskel had told him, sipping White Gull in the depths of Kaer Morhen’s hall. Lust, Lambert had added with a wink, Aiden tucked into his side with matching gold bands on their hands. Vesemir had looked at Geralt, worried despite his careful blankness. 

The crowd calls for an encore, and cotton candy eyes shine under the praise, under the adrenaline and admiration. Veins and arteries twist like vines, slither to encompass Geralt’s heart, and contract to squeeze it in a cage; they slink past his chest and up his neck until he can’t swallow, can’t breathe—

Jaskier has always been beautiful. It should be nothing new, and yet the sight leaves Geralt choked, numb with— with _something_. Something he has yet to name. 

He thinks back to Lambert and Aiden, drunk and curled into one another with matching gold bands and matching love-dumb smiles. 

The audience calls for two more encores, and Jaskier rejects their fifth request. 

“A bard’s got to rest, no matter how lovely an audience he has,” he winks, voice booming despite the rasp. “I’ll be here tomorrow if our lovely tavern-keeper allows!” The woman raises a tankard, an approving grin on her face and the tavern grows loud with cheers. Eyes trail after Jaskier, after the flush on his face, after the tilt of his lips as he walks off the lofted performance stage. Jaskier spares them not a glance; he plops himself in the booth seat opposite Geralt and snags his ale. 

His fringe is plastered to his forehead, and ale drips out of and down the corners of his mouth as he chugs. Geralt had known of the lust long ago; his heart squeezes once more with the something he doesn't want to think about. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier fidgets with energy, feet tapping along to the newest tune that has wormed its way into his head as the barmaid sets down two heavy bowls of stew. The scent of steaming beef and potatoes fills their little corner. “What’d you think? Three words or less, of course.” Geralt has so much to say: _You’re so fucking gorgeous,_ and _I love your voice_ and _I could watch you play for days_ and still, three words feel like too many.

“It was fine.” Jaskier beams at him before digging into his stew, shoving food into his mouth. Always ravenous after a performance— Geralt likes him. 

The fond smile falls off his face, lips flat as Jaskier rambles through his chewing.

It’s a revelation long coming and Geralt’s not ready for it. Not like this, with rain pounding on windows, demanding to be let in as if seeking shelter from itself. Not like this, where they’re gorging on food and Jaskier downing ale after loving-audience-provided ale. Geralt can see his eyes begin to soften with the alcohol and all his traitorous mind can think is _cute._

Fuck. _Fuck._

“Geralt? Hello?” The flat of a palm pats twice against his cheek, Jaskier looking at him both cheekily and with a concern that has Geralt wanting to take his hand and press a kiss to his palm. “Where’d you go there?” 

“Nowhere.” The bread crunches as he tears it in half, not too dense and surprisingly fresh. The salt is just right, and the dash of oregano and basil make it—

“Ohhh, no no, I’m not letting you do that,” Jaskier says. He tucks one leg under himself, sitting on the inner side of his foot as he leans forward. He’s intent on drawing an answer out from him, Geralt can see the subtle, stubborn set of his lips. “Mister Grumpy Witcher Man, you are _not_ ,” he jabs a finger out towards Geralt, “getting away with being a broody bastard this time. Tell me what’s wrong, Geralt.” His voice melts into something soft, his expression concerned. 

Geralt wishes he didn’t know. He wishes he didn’t know why his face felt a little too warm when Jaskier smiles at him, happy and open, and he wishes he didn’t know why his chest ached during the nights the bard tossed and turned with unhappy dreams. Not to mention the way his skin crawls with a longing to hold the bard to his chest, to feel his skin against his in intertwined limbs under early morning light— he _wants._ A witcher and a bard belong together, he thinks, but Geralt— he doesn't—

“Geralt?” 

“It’s Roach.” Jaskier eyes him, smiling into his mug. “I’m worried about her.”

“You’re such a horse dad.” Jaskier faux-glares at him before Geralt can protest that he very much isn’t, he just loves and cares for his horses very much, thank you. Lightning crackles, the air stagnant with electricity; Geralt can feel it in the way his fingers twitch. “Barkeep, another ale, if you will!” Jaskier calls. They’ve already got a collection of three tankards over the two hours they’ve been here, and Jaskier is well on his way to stupid drunk. He smiles at him, dimples digging into the corners of his lower lip as he chats about nothing spectacular. It holds Geralt’s attention all the same. Beautiful Jaskier with his pretty voice, all hoarse from singing, Geralt wants to _kiss him_. 

The revelation, it seems, is waiting for no man, especially not for Geralt. He’s not ready, just another day, another week even— he’s not _ready_. 

Jaskier shuffles, doing a little wiggle as he gets comfortable on the wooden seat, and huffs when he fails. “You’re going to get splinters,” Geralt murmurs; he’s not too keen on the bard complaining about bits of wood in his asscheeks this evening, “Quit moving.” Jaskier twists his lips into a frown before he spreads them in a slow, mischievous grin. 

“Why, you’re right. If only I could find a better seat in this very fine, very lovely,” Geralt can’t fight the snort that escapes him, “establishment…” and in his humor, he misses the way Jaskier slinks over to him till he’s plopping himself on Geralt’s lap. He’s warm, snuggling closer into Geralt’s chest through the thick of his doublet as he makes himself comfortable in his uninvited seat. He looks up at Geralt, eyes stupid-wide with put-on innocence; he’s lucky that Geralt loves him. 

And there it is. Geralt wants to run away from it; he knows love, and he knows the pain that comes with it. Abandonment, argument, love, and lust are all of the same creature, and Geralt wants nothing to do with it but wrap his arms around Jaskier and hold him closer and tell him he lov—

Ah. Geralt is well and truly fucked. The wind batters at the doors, and the rain leaks between the windowsills. Jaskier tucks deeper into his heart, sipping his ale as he hums to himself. “Geralt?” The bard peers up at him, head cocked and cheeks rosen. “You’re extra grumpy today, darling.” _Darling_. “Is something wrong, Geralt?”

“I shouldn’t love you.” The words are gruff. They’re forced out of his heart— squeezed through his throat and spit out of his mouth. “I shouldn’t even be having this conversation while you’re well onto tits-up drunk.” Jaskier’s shoulder is comfortable, neck warm as he tucks his face into the crook of it. He _shouldn’t._ And yet, he can’t imagine life without Jaskier, can’t imagine life without _loving_ Jaskier. 

Despite Geralt’s emotional crisis, Jaskier smiles brightly. “Dear heart,” he says, “I’ve loved you for a _hundred years_ .” Geralt pulls back, staring down at clear eyes that shine with something uncomfortably close to mirth. This is insanity, has to be some fever-induced haze because Geralt could never have this. He’s a grimy bastard with a few too many servings of trauma. He’s not even quite human. He can’t be _deserving._

“You haven’t even been alive for that long,” Geralt grumbles.

Jaskier clicks his tongue. “Well…” and Geralt marks that as a conversation for later. The tavern’s chatter sounds muffled, fading into the background as the storm lulls into a quiet hum. His world has been reduced to Jaskier; the bard takes up every crevice and every shadow of Geralt’s being.

“Hm.” He’s not sure what to say. Not sure what to do. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s got something content on his face, something happy— too similar to the thing Geralt had refused to name earlier. “Geralt,” he presses his lips to the side of Geralt’s neck, and the witcher freezes, muscles locking as if a twitch could frighten this delicate thing away. “Can I kiss you?” Geralt’s heart throbs, the cage of veins and arteries around it rushing with blood. It’s too loud in his ears as his heart beats a wild rhythm. 

_You’re already kissing me_ , he wants to say. But four words are too many when he can barely speak— he manages to choke up one. 

“Yes.”

Jaskier’s lips are chapped, rough, and dry with cold as they brush against Geralt’s. His eyes are so blue, so _close_ before his eyelashes fan his cheeks, and Geralt wants to wrap this moment up and settle it in a nice glass jar to admire it till the end of time. 

“Jaskier,” he whispers, and the bard closes the scant distance between them, a gentle press of lips as if Geralt’s something fragile, as if he’s something to be treated with _care._ The bard’s body is warm against him, his back pressed to Geralt’s chest, and they crane their necks for their first kiss in a dingy tavern and amongst an angry storm.

Geralt will think back on this moment later, with Jaskier dozing in his arms under dusk’s dimming light. He’ll think about the way butterflies had batted against his chest, and the way his stomach had twisted and his lungs had burned and his heart had _ached_ with love. He’ll think about how perfect they’d been, and how long he’d struggled to find love’s name. He knows it now, know’s it better than anything else. 

The storm settles into clear, blue sky.

**Author's Note:**

> Go check out the rest of the works in the collection, they're sooo good.
> 
> [Here's my tumblr :)](https://persony-pepper.tumblr.com)


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